


Bropus, Being the Tyme Two Enemy Pyrates Became Friends Long Enough to Tell England to Fuck Off and Also an Unhappy Day for a Certain Captain Naft

by Ithika, Meglifluous



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 14:24:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4525386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ithika/pseuds/Ithika, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meglifluous/pseuds/Meglifluous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, of course you know all about "Charles Vane Appreciation Week on Tumblr." Well, this story started out as an RP drabble for that -- let's call it the "Bro-Lark." The idea was, at first, to cooperate on a story that highlighted the unique relationship between Captain Charles Vane and Captain James Flint -- that would have been for Wednesday, which was the day set aside for highlighting Vane's relationships. But Wednesday came and went while both authors continued furiously writing. By Friday, the project had cheerfully been renamed "Bropus" and was slated for Charles Vane AU day. Or maybe it was Head Cannon day. Or maybe -- aw, who cares. Here it is, please enjoy, and long live Captain Vane!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bropus, Being the Tyme Two Enemy Pyrates Became Friends Long Enough to Tell England to Fuck Off and Also an Unhappy Day for a Certain Captain Naft

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RealmofVane](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=RealmofVane).



> OftheRanger: In honor of Charles Vane appreciation week we --  
> BornofSuchDarkThings: What!? What the HELL? Is that a THING?  
> OftheRanger: Of course it's a thing. Why the fuck wouldn't it be?  
> BornofSuchDarkThings: Oh, so you're saying there are normal, honorable citizens somewhere thinking, "you know who needs a day? No, better yet, a week? The pirate murderer Charles Vane...!”  
> OftheRanger: Lots of women, from what I hear.  
> BornofSuchDarkThings: :snorts then sighs in exasperation: All right. I suppose that could be a thing. What the fuck were you saying about it?  
> OftheRanger: :With an insufferable grin, he continues.: I was saying, in honour of Charles Vane appreciation week, we decided to recount the tale of the time that I liberated Nassau from beneath the heel of the British. And you were there.  
> BornofSuchDarkThings: ::turns very very slowly to glare at him:: Are you...are you perhaps referring to the plan I single-handedly crafted to chase an intended replacement governor and the escort war ship I happened to have intelligence was coming in with him away from our shores? The time I gave you detailed, explicit instructions on how to be ever so slightly helpful to me? Is that the time you're referring to?  
> OftheRanger: :Languidly takes a pull from his tankard, rakish grin unshaken.: The very same. Detailed, explicit instructions. That sounds like you. Politely requesting the assistance of the Ranger in repelling our mutual enemy. :It's his turn to snort, though he seems in curious good humour.: And Naft was there, too. Poor bastard.  
> BornofSuchDarkThings: ::expression softens as he allows a chuckle:: Oh, Naft. Yes, poor Naft. The Intrepid really did get the raw end of that deal, didn't she? ::scratches at his beard and then, seeming to remember something, turns a fresh scowl of outrage on his drinking companion:: Did you ever contribute your share to the fund I promised him to rebuild her? You didn't, did you? You kept every one of the guns you pulled off the East Indianman!  
> OftheRanger: :: Eyebrows shoot above remorseless pale eyes at this remark, smile growing impossibly, unconvincingly innocent.:: I took only my fair and reasonable share of the take.  
> BornofSuchDarkThings: ::grabbing for a tankard with a tight-jawed shake of his head:: You are unbelievable. Predictable, but unbelievable. And I absolutely do not trust you to start this story off correctly, so finish your drink whilst I try to give these poor people some perspective on how this all began....

 

**1713**

 

**CHAPTER 1| BornofSuchDarkThings**

Miranda came into the room pulling the lace of her sleeve ruffles into position over her wrists and stopped to kiss the top of James’ head when she found him bent over the dining room table.

“What are you writing?”

James didn’t look up from the page he was working on but acknowledged her presence by sitting up straight in his chair, earning a fond smile.  “A list. Of things I need to properly greet the incoming governor of Nassau. Two ships left London last Tuesday.”  

Miranda paused to read over his shoulder and let out a short laugh. “Naft’s ship. Hornigold’s men. _Charles Vane_? I suppose there’s no need for me to prepare tea, then?” She moved to the kitchen table to check on the dough she’d left rising overnight.

“I wouldn’t trouble yourself, no. We’re not going to let him into the harbor.”

“You’ve decided this for the whole island, I take it?”

Pushing his chair back across the wooden floor, James stood, gently blowing on the still-wet ink of his list. “I did, yes.”

“Pardon my ignorance, but won’t they just send another one?” Miranda patted the bottom of her mixing bowl, easing the dough out onto a thin coating of flour she’d spread there. “Governor, that is.”

“The plan is to discourage that. Send a little message.”

“James, if the message you’re trying to send London is ‘fuck you,” I rather think they’ve received it by now.”

 He was already at the door, pulling on his heavy leather coat, even as the sun outside beat down across the sand.  “This isn’t about me. It’s about all of us.”

“All of us?” Miranda had pressed a palm to her forehead, as she often did at the onset of a headache.  “Sometimes I wonder who’s in more denial; you pretending you’re truly a pirate or me pretending that you’re not.”

“They need to see us act in concert, a united front.” Turning, Miranda saw he was pulling on his boots. “It’s not enough to ignore their delegates; we have to actively turn them away.”

“But isn’t any new governance a new chance to negotiate for pardons?” Miranda asked the question almost wearily, turning her attention back to the dough she was kneading.

“This new governor isn’t coming in with pardons, Miranda, he’s coming in with armed guards. We’ve outnumbered the civilian population here two to one for nearly ten years now, but we’re still seen as vermin in need of extermination!”

Miranda had put up a hand then, elegant and graceful even covered in flour. “Please don’t include me in that summation. Go line up your toy soldiers, if you must, but beware of rat kings, James.”   

 

**CHAPTER 2| RP: OftheRanger and BornofSuchDarkThings** (as Billy -- sorry, Billy)

Bonny clears her throat and nods her head toward the _Walrus_ ' envoy, a tall young man who had recently been appointed boatswain. He stands deferentially just past the doorway, apparently waiting to be invited in, his wide blue eyes fixed on the female pirate with equal parts fear and fascination. There is a boarding axe tucked into his belt but he appears otherwise unarmed, and carefully moves his eyes away from Anne every time he realizes he is staring at her.

"Someone here for you from Flint's ship," Bonnie mutters, one hand resting easily on the hilt of her sword. "Somethin' ‘bout a proposition..."

Charles looks up from the coin he's been rolling over his fingers at the sound of Anne's voice, disturbed from his reverie. Anne made a good drinking companion in that way - she didn't talk too much.

He raises his gaze to the waiting man - the boatswain. He finishes his drink before raising a hand to the sailor, beckoning him over to where he sat, not bothering to rise.

"Well, what does he want today?"

The young man swallows and offers two nods of greeting, the first reflexive and the second a more deliberate signal of greeting and respect. He stands at an almost formal at ease, one hand clutching the other wrist.

"Captain. Captain Flint is hoping you'll agree to meet with him to discuss the new guv'nor being sent here from London. He intends to repel him at the harbor and believes that the _Ranger_ could be a formidable partner in this endeavor. He'd like to speak with you at your convenience, but wanted me to relate that the ship is expected by Tuesday."

Rather than address the rather spectacular words coming from the fellow's mouth, Vane looks him up and down. "You're the bo's'n, aren't you? Gates' lad."

The young man nods immediately, the barest hint of a smile flashing across his face, apparently pleased either with being recognized or with being associated with the _Walrus_ ' stalwart quartermaster.

"Yes, sir. Billy Bones. The Captain also wanted me to emphasize that he expects the guv'nors ship to come in with an escort, and that he intends to catch that escort on the sandbar. Said to make it clear that there would be guns involved, for the taking, and also...uh..." The young man pauses, thinking hard, lips slightly parted as he squints up at the sky trying to remember his Captain's exact wording: "' _It should be a bloody good fight and make England think twice about sending another one_.'"

Satisfied that he'd gotten the quote right, Billy dared to meet Captain Vane's eyes for the first time, and smiled brightly.

Charles stares at Billy Bones for a long while before replying - those words certainly sounded as if they could have come from Flint, and the lad (to say nothing of his captain) did not look the sort to risk playing games with him. He turns to Anne, who had already lost interest in their unexpected guest, now watching a table of sailors from some vessel or other playing a raucous game of pinfinger with a dismissive smirk. "Can always use more guns."

Her scowl turns on her captain now, and as ever, she's tight with her words. "The fuck have you got to lose?"

"Fine."

Turning back to Billy, Vane rises. "Let's go."

The boatswain blinks, surprised. "Now?" He collects himself quickly, eyebrows shooting up as he glances at Bonny, willing her to remain seated at the table with the entirety of his 210 cm tall being.

"Right this way, Captain."

 

**CHAPTER 3| BornofSuchDarkThings**

It was a risk sharing the vanguard with Vane, but Flint couldn’t help smiling at the sight of the _Ranger_ —gleaming and defiant—guarding the harbor inlet abreast of the _Walrus_. A citrus and oleander scented northerly wound through the ship's’ masts, teasing their furled sails and ruffling the saltwater beneath their hulls until refracted sunlight glinted off the tips of a million tiny waves. It was a beautiful day for a fight.

“D’you think he’ll stick to the plan?” Gates asked with a soft frown, his sober brown eyes squinting in the same direction.

“I think under no circumstances will Charles Vane let anyone he dislikes into our harbor. Whether he follows my suggestions on how to accomplish that or not…” Flint allowed for a light shrug.

Gates chuckled. “Amusing how you think those were _suggestions_.”

Flint glanced over his shoulder at the four ships arrayed leeward in the harbor behind him. The coming battle had begun to be gossiped about in the tavern and although he had nothing specific for them to do, Flint appreciated seeing several other pirate crews of Nassau gathering to create an informal pirate flotilla behind him. Add in Hornigold along with his men in the fort and Naft in position with the Intrepid and their success was all but assured. Flint turned back to his stalwart quartermaster with a gleam in his eye, his fingers tightening around his spyglass in anticipation.

“Of course they were suggestions. Any man who gives Charles Vane an order is…well, in line for disappointment, to begin with.” Flint frowned at the horizon and then glanced up at the position of the sun. “Honestly the worst thing that could happen is they turn tail and flee before we get so much as a shot in.”

Hal smirked as he shook his head at Flint, perpetually caught between amusement and alarm when it came to the Captain’s dogged resolve. “The worst thing that could happen is that we lose the island,” he corrected.

Flint’s eyes were once again on the _Ranger_ and he spoke with unassailable confidence. “We’re not losing this island. Not today.”

The truth was, it was theirs for the taking. Feeling isolated and abandoned by the crown, Nassau’s last colonial governor had bolted two months prior, fleeing on an outbound fishing dogger in the middle of the night. The incident had barely provided for a tankard’s worth of natter among the island’s pirates, but when Flint had come into possession of a correspondence detailing the identity and travel schedule of the governor's intended replacement, he’d seen an opportunity to take a stand.

The Captain raised his spyglass and scanned the horizon, idly remembering Miranda’s comments and thinking that rat kings belonged to filthy, infested cities, like London…nothing so twisted could exists in paradise. He was just beginning to remember, with a wry smile in appreciation of Miranda’s cleverness, that the term had originally referred not to actual rats, but to people who lived off of others, when a white straight angle came into view in the lower periphery of his lens. He said the word to himself with quiet gratification at the exact same moment Mr. Beauclerc shouted it out from the crow’s nest, a lusty cry that was immediately echoed by a voice from the _Ranger_ carrying across the water.    

“ _Sail._ ”

“Sail!”

“Sail!”

Flint pressed himself against the railing and focused his spyglass, teeth grit in concentration. “Sloop with a Frigate escort. Coming around the Hog, exactly as promised. Sloop’s a gaff-cutter, eight guns. She’s with a fifth rate forty-gunner; converted East Indianman, if I’m not mistaken.” He spun toward his quartermaster with a blood-thirsty sneer. “I want that bitch on our sandbar.”

He clapped Mr. Gates on the shoulder and began to stride abaft, calling out to his crew in a composed but forceful roar.

“Bring her about! But slowly, gentlemen! Slowly! We’re just drifting into line…Gun crews at the ready, starboard side, but keep yourselves out of sight! And get me two men on the windlass, Mr. Gates – when it’s time to move we’ll need to move quickly!”

Stopping at the poop deck, Captain Flint grinned and shouted across the water to the Captain of the _Ranger_. “Think you can find room for a few new guns, Charles? Let’s make this a goddamned good day to be a pirate!”

 

**CHAPTER 4| OftheRanger**

Charles breathes deep of the crisp ocean air, deck of the _Ranger_ rolling languidly beneath him. As he stares expectantly out to the open ocean the baking Bahamas sun warms his back, the tingling heat of it calming even as the blankness of the horizon set his teeth on edge. Waiting. Waiting was ever the worst part of these things; no part of his life had trained him for it.

As he moves to the railing, both hands grasping the sleek timber as he leans against it, catlike eyes settle on the familiar form of the _Walrus_ across the bay. The sight of the loitering square-rigger brings the flicker of a smile to an otherwise stern face; it was going to be a good day.  He’d been surprised by Flint’s invitation to this sortie, and given their history initially stridently opposed to working side by side with the man. But there had been no ulterior motive Vane could detect in the elder captain’s plan, and in the end it had been respect - for whatever else Flint was, he was an admirable pirate and no fool - and good judgment that had secured Vane’s agreement. In this, they were united: Nassau would not be returned to the heel of a governor so soon after casting the last one off.

“You seem unexpectedly chipper, Captain.” His reverie broken moments before by approaching footfalls, Charles’ smirk doesn’t falter as he turns to face his wiry, wily quartermaster. The man’s voice had carried a questioning, almost sardonic edge - the man was incapable of speaking without it. It was one of the things Vane liked about him.

“Why would my good humour be unexpected, Jack?” If anything, the small smile tugged a little harder at the corners of his lips, in good spirits with the promising day before them.

Rackham adjusted his shaded spectacles - the strange things had been a discovery that had delighted the quartermaster on the Ranger’s last hunt, and while they were passing strange Charles could see the merit of them, squinting as he was out over the glistening water - and turned his own gaze to the ship that was their only real rival in these waters. “Flint is hardly an ally I would have thought you’d deign to dance with. I can’t help but wonder what he offered to secure your acquiescence.”

There is a companionable silence before the shorter man answers, and Jack settles against the railing, looking entirely more relaxed than his captain. Eventually, with a shrug of brawny shoulders, the captain barks out a laugh. “Flint appealed to my interests.”

“Those being cannonfire and blood, I’d wager?”

Vane’s grin as he looks back at his old comrade is wild as it ever is. “A free Nassau.”

He’d been about to add that yes, a good fight was always like to pique his interest, when the cry of “Sail!” is echoed between ships - and then Vane’s smile is all fangs, his spyglass fixed to an eye in moments.

“Flint guessed right - two of the King’s ladies. You know my orders, Jack.” 

_Think you can find room for a few new guns, Charles? Let’s make this a goddamned good day to be a pirate!_ Flint’s voice carried strongly across the water between ships, the light wind failing to carry away his words. It would be at least an hour yet, but Charles can feel his blood heat and stir, and his own roared reply is sure to reach the other captain without difficulty.

“Easily, Flint! Ready to show those fucks in London the price of Nassau?”

 

**CHAPTER 5| BornofSuchDarkThings**

“Fuck London!” The red-headed Captain shouted back with an enthusiasm so unadulterated as to be contagious. The grin on his face was almost certainly the most sincere the other Captain had ever seen as Flint turned back to the men aboard the  _Walrus_ . “Raise the King’s colors, it’s time to signal the  _Intrepid_ !”

Flint needed his spyglass to make out the action on the deck of Naft’s ship, but saw her boatswain blow his whistle as the the decoy flags came up over the Walrus. The Captain himself was, predictably, in foul spirits, and even as he smiled wryly, Flint sympathized. Though not the fastest ship and certainly one of the poorest earners in their little corner of the Bahamas, the _Intrepid_ was a beauty; stately and substantial in all the ways her Captain was not. Naft had agreed to the ruse only because Flint had promised funds and the use of his two best carpenters to help rebuild her, and also because, once Flint and Vane had joined him at his table at the tavern, pulling up chairs to either side of him and smiling roguishly as they took turns refilling his tankard, there was really no way the doddering old Captain could do anything other than hastily agree to help them in any way he could. It was the greatest advantage of working with Vane instead of against him; the only way a Captain in Nassau could resist Captain Flint was to go to Captain Vane and the only way to resist Captain Vane was to attempt to enlist Captain Flint...if you were unfortunate enough to have them approach you together, well… Pirate Captains, as a general rule, did make an effort not to whimper or cry.

With the wind blowing from the North, Flint felt confident that even Captain Naft should have the skill to navigate into position.  He watched the black flag run up the _Intrepid’s_ ensign staff with a twinge of envy. Soon enough, though. Soon enough.  

Over on the _Ranger_ , it didn’t look like Vane was of the mind to hoist a spurious flag, but Flint could see the ship beginning a slow, graceful turn alongside the _Walrus_. The target ships were meanwhile letting the wind assist them around Hog Island as expected. So far, everything was going exactly to plan….

 

**CHAPTER 6| OftheRanger**

“Fuckin’ strange to wait for the prize to come to us.” Anne had joined her captain up on the poop deck not long ago, honing the edge of one of her swords relentlessly with a whetstone as her eyes joined Charles’ in watching the ever-approaching sails. He certainly agreed. Waiting for their prey to approach was strange indeed, the nature of hunting being what it was. Turning a restless eye up to the t’gallants, he watched as they - being the only unfurled sails - luffed slightly as the ship came about while behind him the  _Walrus_ ’ stern drew slowly nearer, a similar dance echoed on that ship.

He was familiar with the concept of the line of battle, of course - there wasn’t a sailor alive who didn’t know about this ideal broadside tactic. But he’d never had the opportunity to experience it, and now as he stood waiting on the _Ranger’s_ deck, the _Intrepid’s_ bulk conveniently blocking the activity of the two fiercer pirate vessels from the approaching entourage, he felt an unsurprising eagerness to experience the mayhem that was about to unfold.

Roughly half the _Ranger’s_ guns had been brought across the decks, to whatever positions the 12 and 9-pounders could swiftly be anchored. As a result, the larboard side bristled with iron, a presentation of teeth sure to tear that unsuspecting East Indiaman to shreds - especially combined with the _Walrus’_ own formidable armament. If their ruse was to be believed - that Naft’s bark was in the process of subduing the two square-riggers - they’d best hope the third rate’s watchman did not look past the Intrepid with a spyglass.

It galled him only a little that Naft was the one to draw first blood when _Intrepid’s_ guns roared as the Navy ship sailed into range, having adjusted her course to meet the bark just as Flint had predicted she would. The little sloop loitered timidly behind the fifth-rate, her swift fore-and-aft rig making adjusting her speed simple for her lighter crew.

Fore-mounted long nines sent an answering volley into the Intrepid’s starboard side as she continued her path between the sandbar and the now-formed line of battle. “Gunners, at the ready!” He roared his command to the waiting crew - there was no need for subterfuge now, as at any moment the bloated weight of the converted merchant ship would run aground on the unexpectedly advantageous sandbar that had inspired so much of this scheme.

Like poetry, he saw the East Indiaman’s rigging shudder violently as her keel bit into the soft, deadly sand of the bar just as Intrepid’s bulk had shifted out of obstruction of the waiting _Walrus_ and _Ranger_.  The two ships had been visible in glimpses to the ill-fated Navy vessel for some time now, and any doubt as to the intentions of the two heavily-armed full-riggers would now be obliterated by their iconic, unmistakably aggressive formation.

Taking a moment to glance at his unlikely compatriot, Charles is grinning toothily as he takes in what he can see of the familiar scene unfolding aboard the other ship, the organised chaos a mirror to what he knew unfolded behind him. Affording the redhead a curt nod before turning his back to him, Vane’s grin widens to admit his next order.

“Raise the red! Let’s welcome the crown to Nassau!” The crew clamoured in raucous approval at this surprising order - the plan had been to raise the black, and then the red.

“Charles?” Grinning, Vane turns to the sound of Jack’s unsure query.

“Why lie?”

 

**CHAPTER 7| BornofSuchDarkThings**

“Captain?” The boatswain’s voice was anxious and his face, as Flint turned toward him, was frowning with concern. “The  _Ranger’s_ flying the red.”

Flint, who had just been nodding back, with a dark smile of anticipation, to the _Ranger’s_ fierce captain, glanced at his boatswain and then squinted up at the _Ranger’s_ jackstaff to see a blood-red flag flapping above Vane’s ship. Flint had waited until the East Indiaman had grazed the sandbar to raise his jolly roger, wanting to lure her in as close as possible, but seeing that vivid square of crimson cutting into the jewel-blue Bahamian sky, Flint felt his heart kick in his chest. Setting his jaw, he glanced over at the _Intrepid_ , still upright but smoldering like a smokehouse with her mizzenmast coming down across her weather deck and her gunwale shot to hell. The _Walrus_ and the _Ranger_ had maneuvered into an admirably precise line of battle--he honestly doubted that even Admiral Hennessy could have found fault with his and Vane’s formation--and as he watched the East Indianman swing her gaff in a futile attempt to break free of New Providence Island’s fortuitous shoal, he nodded.

“NO QUARTER!” he shouted, answered by an immediate bloodthirsty uproar of exhilaration from the _Walrus_ crew. The words “ _Charles is right_ ,” went through his head so clearly and distinctly that Captain Flint laughed out loud as the black was hauled back down so the red could fly.

 

**CHAPTER 8| OftheRanger**

Looking back to the stranded Navy vessel, he sees her starboard guns pulling back into smoking gunports in preparation of another volley, for all the good it would do her.  With her angle, she’d be lucky to graze the _Ranger_ , and she could only hope to hit the _Walrus_ with her long nines. The vessel was in dire straits, and that knowledge only served to stir the hunger in Vane’s heated blood.

The silence in these moments was not a passive thing - it hung thick in the air, poised and promising, a scintillating moment of clarity before the bedlam about to unfold. “Fire!” His boomed order carries clearly across the deck, and even as it’s repeated by gunners all along the _Ranger_ , he can hear the word repeated by Flint and his men behind him.

The two ships release their volleys almost in unison, the deafening, cacophonous bellow of twenty-odd guns discharging their cannon, the baleful balls of lead tearing almost instantaneously into the prone East Indiaman. Chain shot - it was impossible to tell from which vessel - sawed through her proud main on the first volley, the massive timber collapsing under its own weight with a crisp, clear crack that rang across the water after the guns grew quiet.

The Navy volley shot wide of her targets, hulled between sand and water as she was - the gun decks angled high and frozen when her keel had bitten into the sand. Round shot had torn harmlessly through the _Ranger’s_ spanker sail, the rest of the volley shrieking harmlessly into the sea. As the smoke cleared, it became obvious to Vane that the stranded ship would not likely have another chance to make her presence felt - the shattered main was perhaps the most grievous single injury the pirates had dealt the vessel, but the dual volley had drawn close to raking her. The midships gun decks had taken the bulk of the fire, and she was taking on water through blows that had found their mark below her waterline.

One more volley should ensure the vessel would have no hope of firing upon any ship that might aim to come alongside to board, though he knew they’d need to move swiftly - like as not the vessel would break apart between the damage to her timbers and the movement of the waves. So it’s with impatience he orders the next broadside, sword in hand, eager eyes trained on the besieged vessel.

She’s holding together, though little more can be said of her than that, her decks a mess of shattered timber, fallen lines and prone men. It was a remarkable scale of destruction to witness from the _Ranger’s_ tidy deck. But the job was not yet seen to its end, and Charles turns his blade restlessly in hand as he looks back to where Flint stands near the _Walrus’_ helm.

“Now she’s all gussied up, let’s get the guns she’s brought us!” The two ships close enough in their formation that his strong voice carries easily between them, his vicious, rapacious grin mirrored on the other captain’s face.

 

**CHAPTER 9| BornofSuchDarkThings**

Still wearing a snarling, ferocious grin, Flint held Vane’s gaze and chin nodded up toward the Ranger’s red flag. “That’s a mortal wound we’ve given her, but don’t take your boots off just yet!” He had no doubt the other Captain could hear him, just as he had no doubt that, like him, Vane would be going over with his men to wade into the fray beside them.

Glancing over his shoulder at the gunners, Flint took a moment to appreciate the speed and efficiency of his crew. The air was thick with cannon smoke and savagery, but they had so far progressed without serious injury to ship or man. Some minor damage had befallen the gallery, mostly cosmetic, and De Groot had gone below to check the tiller, but if she’d had to, the Walrus could have pressed on into open water without risk. And more importantly to Flint, the men of the _Walrus_ continued to work well together, maintaining focus and holding in their capacity for barbaric violence--a capacity he knew they would unleash on an enemy deck anytime he asked it of them. Flint understood that this was in large part thanks to Hal, who watched over the proceedings with an eagle eye, pacing back and forth behind the twelve-pounders.

“Clear their decks as best you can with this next volley--we’re going over!” Flint shouted. Hal immediately relayed the first part of his order to the gunners as Billy ran with the second, beginning to arm and prepare the melee vanguard. Flint knew that with the East Indianman listing so dramatically his gun crew wouldn’t have a clear shot of her decks, but a few good blasts to the railing could cause enough confusion and injury to ease the risk of their boarding.

Seconds later, Hal’s brown eyes found his Captain’s narrowed green ones, and he nodded.

“Fire!” Flint roared.   

Though the first volley had been nearly in concert with the _Ranger’s_ \--a bedlam of bone-shaking blasts--the second had a militaristic, progressive quality to it as the _Walrus’_ guns fired fore to aft in measured bursts of relentless punishment.   

Flint counted them out silently, one to ten, and then set his jaw. “ _Take her_!” he bellowed, and behind him the _Walrus_ crew cheered.

 

**CHAPTER 10| OftheRanger** (with a tiny RP cameo by BornofSuchDarkThings)

The real beauty of the sandbar revealed itself to the invaders as both pirate vessels slid easily alongside the stricken third rate ship of the line, neither keel so much as kissing the deadly sand that lay below. From the shores of Nassau, the cluster of gently swaying masts must have looked peaceful, a copse of slender trees against the calm field of water. Of course, dual red banners snapping in the fair wind put the lie to any semblance of peace that might have been guessed at from shore.

This was what he lived for. Awash with blood lust long before his boots connected with the torn teak of the Navy vessel’s deck, surrounded by his brothers, Vane was in his element. The sailors, to their credit, did not cower from the fight that was inevitable.

Some men, upon seeing the crimson banner with his mark upon it, would beg or weep. Ultimately, it made no difference, but he far preferred the ones that resisted.

The first man to charge him was short and young, his sword coming wide at Charles from a sloppy, high angle. The captain dodged the blade easily, nimble feet bringing him close to the body of the sailor, the other man’s sword arm passing harmlessly behind his back as though in embrace. Vane’s sword found the lad’s gut as he stepped towards him, brute strength driving the blade inward and upward. Cold, dispassionate eyes take in the patchy beard on tanned cheeks, watch hazel eyes constrict in shock at how quickly it was over.  With a shake, the broken body falls to the deck, its weight doing much of the work to free his sword.

Anne, ever beside him in a fight, fell upon the next man to attack with the efficient, deadly grace he’d come to rely on, her two swords as ruinous and accurate as they’d ever been.  Bonny does not take his attention for long - a robust man, sleeves rolled back over huge tattooed forearms, is coming at him now. _HOLD FAST_ , knuckles display as they grip his blacksmith’s hammer, brandished before the man. He’s big and experienced, but Charles is not concerned by the challenge he presents.

His sword, glistening wetly as he brings its point to face this new foe, traces delicate curves through the air as the captain grinningly tracks the movements of his new quarry. The big man brings his hammer whistling towards the pirate, the way he shifts his weight signalling his intent like a beacon. As Charles steps easily aside from the blow the man staggers forward, the hammer unbalancing him as it failed to find a target. Steel licks low across the man’s undefended back as Vane continues his light-footed way around the navy man, and the cry of pain and shock that tears from him in answer to it is cut short by Charles’ long knife freed from his belt and plunged hard into an undefended throat.

He has forgotten the man before he hits the deck, pale eyes feral and eager as he seeks his next foe. The battle continues in much the same way - the motley assortment of surviving crew failing to deal the captain or his crew any serious damage. There are moments when he catches glimpses of Flint or other _Walrus_ men in the fray, the other captain ghastly with blood, and then he is gone once more in the chaos.

As the besieged crew falls man by man to the relentless onslaught of pirate steel, Charles finds a moment to gaze outward over the water, spying the fleeing sloop. She looked to have turned tail and run not long ago, her eminent passenger perhaps having insisted the little ship wait faithfully for her escort to tidy up the pirate threat.

He knew, watching the little ship tack to catch the wind - his heart already rising in anticipation of the hunt - that he could catch her. The same rig that made the sloop nimble under a light crew kept her from being able to run as close to the wind as his Ranger could, and even now she was tacking hard in her efforts to flee before the wolves took chase.

He whirled around, prepared to strike, as a hand reached out of the fray to grab his sword wrist. Flint’s visage registered half a second before Charles otherwise would have run him through. The older Captain slid his scabbard against Vane’s blade in a light, precautionary parry but otherwise seemed unconcerned with how close he’d just come to being eviscerated.  

“You have to let her go,” he said firmly, nodding toward the fleeing sloop. “Without an eyewitness account, all of this means nothing.” He held Vane’s gaze a moment longer and then, clearly noticing something out of the corner of his eye, spun around, his blade flashing up in the late afternoon sun. An officer had appeared on the deck behind them, both arms extended as he aimed a flintlock at one of the _Walrus_ men--Vane seemed to recall his name as Morley. With his back to Vane, Flint brought his scabbard down in a full cut across the officer’s arms, instantly amputating them both at the elbows. The man screamed as blood sprayed across the boards in a torrent.

Before Vane had time to ascertain whether or not Morley had even noticed, a second man wearing the fine garb of an officer broke him from his reverie, lunging towards him with a cry. This fight taxes his skills more than the ones that came before it, though it does not take long for it to be over, and Vane checks once again the little ship. It would be so easy - but he does agree with Flint's argument for notoriety over profits. He agreed, even if the men may not.

The last navy man falls to the deck before long, the two pirate crews having made short and bloody work of their grisly mission. Wiping his forearm futilely across his blood-streaked face, Vane nods across at Flint before addressing his crew. His crew, remarkably largely uninjured, stepped lively to his order to begin salvaging their share of the guns before the crippled ship had a chance to break apart.

The salvage is far harder work than the brief and vicious skirmish had been, the bulky iron cannon both difficult and dangerous to manhandle.

 

**CHAPTER 11| BornofSuchDarkThings**

Once back on the  _Walrus_ , Flint paused on the weather deck to admire the smoking hulk of the frigate once more, a quiet smile of satisfaction warming his weathered features.  

"Coming Captain?"

Flint turned to Billy, who was waiting patiently by the last longboat launch.

"Absolutely."

The water of the harbor was dark and quiet, in sharp contrast to the beach, already lit by several  large fires and ringing with laughter and music. The sun was slipping quietly behind the horizon line by the time Flint's boots hit the shoreline and it was already clear that the party would rage all night. He left Billy to tend to the boat and headed up the beach toward the largest bonfire. Though he couldn’t have said exactly why, he was watching for the proud silhouette of Captain Vane.

 

**CHAPTER 12| OftheRanger**

Vane had been meticulously cleaning his blade - it wouldn't do to let the blade sit in blood for long - when Jack had found him. "Enjoyable fight, Chaz."

Letting the ruined scarf (he'd collected it from a vaguely authoritative looking dead man from the frigate) fall from his hands and sheathing his sword, he turned to face his quartermaster, grinning. "Profitable, too."

"Yes." Charles could almost see Jack bite back the comment he knew he was burning to make - the one about working with Flint more often that he knew would surface sooner or later, after this. "Things are already getting quite interesting on the beach. The men are eager for you to join them in their revelry."

The captain's grin only widens as he claps his friend on the shoulder and the two men begin to make their way towards the gathering celebration. The slighter man's face is near as streaked with blood as Vane's own. "You should wash up, Jack. Or people might start to think you know your way around a blade. God forbid."

 

**CHAPTER 13| RP: OftheRanger and BornofSuchDarkThings**

Before long, the sun had set and Nassau's celebration was in full tilt - pirates and land-dwellers alike seeming appreciative of the collective efforts of the _Ranger_ and _Walrus_ \- even the _Intrepid's_ crew was experiencing their warm favour. As it happened, when Flint suddenly appeared by his side, Charles had had a drink for each hand, pressed upon him by an appreciative tailor, of all people.

He passed the fuller of the two to the redheaded captain, inclining his head. "Seems we're not the only ones that have been wanting to tell London to fuck off for quite some time."

Flint smiled, accepting the drink from his sometimes-rival. "Of that I had no doubt." Tilting his head back and raising the tankard to his lips, he took a long, satisfying pull. He had yet to get through a fight without the coppery taste of blood springing up behind his teeth and although he hadn't been aware of being bothered by it, it was a relief to wash it down. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and, finding Charles' feline eyes still on him, decided to actually follow the advice in Marcus Aurelius' _Meditations_ for once and honestly acknowledge the man before him. Typical that he was striving to do so while still painted in another man's blood.

"I know you wanted to take that sloop as well, and that between your sailing prowess and the _Ranger's_ speed it would have been well within your power to do. But I appreciate you letting her go." He shared a rakish smile of genuine pleasure. "What we saw...Nassau fighting as one, free men with deadly ships and the skills to use them, red flags high above their masts...the men on that ship saw it too. And it would be a shame for word of that not to get back to the Admiralty."

Flint glanced over his shoulder in response to a burst of raucous laughter behind him and then turned his attention back to Vane. "Thank you for your help today, Charles. This was one for the history books."

It was strange, seeing a smile lighten Flint's normally stern visage, though Charles knew in all fairness that the other man might think the same of him, grinning as he was. It had been good, to work alongside a captain and crew of - and he would admit it, to himself and just this once - skill and ferocity equal to his _Ranger_.

He knew, however, that this unlikely truce would be fleeting, no matter what Rackham may wish to suggest. The very things that had made the day a success were why Charles knew they could never work side by side for long. Still, that was not a thought for tonight, and he pushed it aside with another satisfying mouthful of whatever he was drinking.

Flint's compliment took him by surprise, and it showed on his face, eyebrows shooting up and lips pulling into a deeper grin before he can stop it. He shrugs, deep voice sincere. "Your plan was a good one. There's a lot to be said for being feared, and making your intentions known."

Bringing his tankard up to Flint's, the dented metal clinking together companionably, he returns the gesture with a relaxed and easy grace. "It was a good brawl, wasn't it?" He winks at the older man before draining what little was left of his beverage. "Fuck London."

Flint grinned. “I will definitely drink to that.”

 


End file.
